


On War

by lonelywalker



Category: Smallville
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Hate Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 08:22:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between <i>Ageless</i> and <i>Forever</i>, Genevieve still has one card she's yet to play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On War

_Before all else, be armed.  
\- Niccolo Machiavelli_

Early in her association with Lionel Luthor, Genevieve had discovered that he liked nothing better than to make women beg. While never a desirable quality in a sociopath, it had always proved to make their rare bedroom sessions particularly memorable. At the present moment, however, bile rising in her throat, lungs succumbing to paralysis, she would do anything to forget them.

She's been stupid, she realizes now. Of course she has. The Teagues have known the Luthors for almost thirty years, and never once during that time has she stopped being wary of his ruthless financial mind. The rumors have it that he once murdered his own parents to buy his way out of a dead-end, impoverished existence in the slums of Metropolis. He is brilliant, he can be charming, but he is always - _always_ \- dangerous.

He is calm now, standing far enough from her that she cannot hope to reach him, to somehow wrestle the antidote from his grasp. There is absolutely no hint of pity in his eyes. He has the sharp confidence of a man who knows he has already, resoundingly, won. That, more than anything, more even than the poison in her blood, makes Genevieve want to vomit.

She could stand her ground, of course. She could keep the secret of the stone he so desperately wants, even with her body dying, her mind being starved of oxygen as the seconds pass. But what then? She would be dead, and out of the game permanently with not even a fleeting chance of revenge. And he... he would no doubt show up at Jason's door. Jason, with only his youthful enthusiasm and football-field strategies, could never...

"The element, Genevieve. Where is it?"

 _He knows his power, this one._ She had thought that the first time they had met, invited to his family's mansion in the middle of nowhere in Kansas. The children had run around the grounds, whooping with glee as young Oliver Queen played Robin Hood and chased Alexander into a cheerful asthma attack on freshly-mowed lawns. Lillian and Edward, utterly enchanted with Virgil Swann's charisma and insight, had been all-too-easily distracted. And Lionel had chivalrously offered to give her the grand tour, had showed off his encyclopedic knowledge of French wine in the cellar before fucking her between the silk sheets of his own bed.

She hadn't been in love, hadn't even liked him much on that occasion. He had been too rash in those days, too much the street-gutter boy inexplicably raised to greatness. Virgil had seen something in him, though, something beyond choppily-cut hair, relentlessly black clothes, and the barely-concealed fury that always seemed to be seething within him. Genevieve, of course, had bowed to Virgil's good opinion, momentarily forgetting his good nature. Virgil, it had to be remembered, had seen something good in _her_ , as well. And look where that had got him.

But time is growing short. Raising herself up on one elbow, she uses her other hand to point towards the bookshelves just behind where Lionel is standing. There's a wooden jewelry box there, but she could never be quite so obvious.

Lionel scours the shelves, and turns back, a quizzical look on his face. She hardly requires more motivation, but speaking is becoming too difficult. If she loses consciousness now... _Jason_. "Rocks, Lionel," she says, attempting to inject a dose of frustration into her tone. It barely comes out as a whisper.

He locates the geology tome almost immediately, opens it with one hand, and extracts the stone from between its hollowed-out pages. Such a strangely beautiful object, but worth dying for? She hopes not as it disappears into his pocket. For the barest moment, she thinks that he is going to leave her here to die. Perhaps he should. But then he is crouched beside her, a hand light on her shoulder as he uncorks the antidote and makes her drink it. He's hardly the nurse she'd wish to have in this situation, but the sudden gasp of air she receives as her lungs are suddenly freed of their restraints is so, so good that it even makes her see him in an almost angelic light for a few moments.

"I would do _anything_ to protect my son," Lionel says, stroking her hair as she coughs and swallows and tries to convince her ears to stop ringing. "And I know that you would do the same. Look after yourself, Geneviève."

She flings the wine bottle at the door in his wake. A fine 1961 Bordeaux stains the carpets.

***

There had been a time, once, when they had made a point of dropping in on each other at what were, ostensibly, the most inappropriate times. But neither of them has ever desired inflexible schedules, and ulterior motives are easiest to achieve when a certain amount of surprise has been engendered by the situation itself. Surprising Lionel now, however, is much more difficult than she had anticipated.

Since his release from prison, he has been freed – however reluctantly – from his ties to LuthorCorp, from the office atop a skyscraper that had filled him with such pride. The chilly, cramped guest house at the mansion where she had found him before had been such a departure from his lavish Metropolis penthouse that she had almost been convinced by his sudden conversion to humble ways. _Almost_. A few apparently idle questions put to the mansion’s security by Jason, however, and she knows to look for him much closer to home.

Perhaps she should expect to be stopped at the door by his security – now that he has the element, there is nothing she can offer him but a risk he would be wiser not to take. But she knows Lionel, knows him better than anyone could hope to in the wake of Lillian’s death. Over-confidence isn’t the term for it, but she understands the way danger intrigues him. He’s always fenced with real blades.

“Lionel,” she says when he opens the door, tone carefully measured, just a little arch.

His white shirt is open at the cuffs and collar, reading glasses clutched in the hand that isn’t resting on the edge of the door. A piano concerto echoes through hidden speakers and perfect acoustics. He smiles. “Geneviève.” And he steps back, letting her enter.

His penthouse apartment reflects the cool, dark minimalism of his office, the type of style that was never intended for the practicalities of family life. Rumor has it that he still owns the old family house on the outskirts of Metropolis, but that no one has set foot there in years. Perhaps it’s his own shrine to his wife, his younger son, destined to be untouched by the ages. Perhaps those walls, those hallways simply stink too much of death these days, the air clogged with all the guilt and horror of years gone by.

She eyes a chessboard set up by one of the many bookcases, its pieces in a state of play. “Black or white?”

He takes the coat from her shoulders. “Both,” he tells her, and it may only be an accident, the way his breath moves strands of her hair, tickling her ear.

“White is in _quite_ a tricky predicament.”

“So one might think.” When she looks up from the board, he’s standing there, almost unnaturally still, hands clasped behind his back. “I would invite you to play, but patience has never been your strong suit.”

“ _Patience_ , Lionel?” Genevieve pulls out a leather-bound book, examining it. There’s a distinct possibility that manhandling his books (usually priceless first editions, if there’s no deep sentimental value) is one of the few things that makes Lionel Luthor truly unnerved. “Rather self-doubt, or a criminal lack of confidence. I try to avoid both whenever possible.” She taps the cover. “ _On the Witness Stand_ \- prepping for a return to prison?”

His only reaction is a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Hardly. Although I must admit that life in the penitentiary afforded ample opportunity to refine my chess game… and my survival skills.”

“I was surprised that you never requested solitary confinement.”

Only then does he move, crossing to a decanter of what she assumes must be brandy. “Man is not a solitary animal, Geneviève. May I offer you a drink?”

“You may,” she agrees, sinking into one of his armchairs – a deep, dark affair covered in soft black leather. She suspects it was made more to be aesthetically pleasing than for actual use. “But you’ll forgive me if I ask you to be the first to take a sip.”

“I shall indeed,” he counters, his back to her as he pours. “Although such nefarious purposes without due cause are a waste of a good Armagnac at best.”

Genevieve taps the leather with her fingertips as he approaches, a heavy crystal glass in each hand. “Such a shame that I was unable to adequately enjoy your Bordeaux.”

He raises a glass to his lips, draws in a breath, his eyes closing. “I do believe you appreciated its finer points.” And he swallows perhaps half a mouthful of the liquid, opening his eyes and cocking his head to one side in an expression of mock amusement before handing the glass to her.

She turns it around in her hands rather than drink immediately. It’s hardly suspicion that stays her hand. Instead, she watches him sit on the couch opposite her, setting his glass on the table, stretching out an arm along the back. Quite the gentleman of leisure. Lionel’s imitation of the aristocracy, while never perfect, has always had a certain charm.

“I must assume that the additional element has been of little use to you,” she says after a few moments, her voice clear, her tone never clearly confrontational. “You don’t have the air of a man possessing all the knowledge of the universe.”

He has the good grace to chuckle at that. “Perhaps not. Although, as you recall, _three_ elements are required to find this mythical treasure trove.”

“Mm.” Genevieve splays out her fingers as she counts. “One stolen from me, one stolen from China by your son, and a third uncovered by that same son in Egypt. It seems, Lionel, that only typical Luthor family infighting may be keeping you from everything you desire.”

“On the contrary. Lex and I have been getting along splendidly since my release from prison. And your rudimentary accounting is sadly erroneous, Geneviève. One… _liberated_ from you, it’s true. But the Egyptian stone has been lost. And, as I tried to tell you before, you’re diligently scrutinizing the wrong son. Much as you might underestimate him, _Jason_ brought the Chinese element to Kansas.”

Genevieve meets his eyes, and looks away again, the hint of a smile crossing her lips as she finally sips from the glass, savoring the warm viscosity of the brandy. “He’s not yours, Lionel, no matter how much unwarranted intelligence and ambition you attribute to him.”

“You have to forgive me for wondering. But I suspect I should be thankful. One can have too many bastard sons in the world, after all.”

Amused, she watches him drink more. “I would have thought that _one_ was more than enough.”

“No, one is expedient,” Lionel tells her. “Although young Lucas seems to prefer to spend his time in casinos and jail cells than causing ripples in the hallways of power.”

“Children are really quite headstrong,” Genevieve muses. “Alexander is following in your footsteps, though. You must be _very_ proud.”

Another chuckle. “Indeed. I fully expect him to crack from the pressure in under six months. Which guarantees me some long-postponed vacation time to spend attending to my varied cultural interests before retaking the reins.”

“Is that underestimation I hear, Lionel?”

“A prediction,” he counters, “born from intimate knowledge of the subject.” Another swallow of brandy, and his glass is empty.

In any other man, she might define this as carelessness, or an overwhelming sense of arrogance. But Lionel’s always held his liquor well. She’s seen him angry, but never beyond his senses, never drunk. He’d told her, in moments long ago, of his mother the wretched alcoholic – a revelation that had at first seemed to make his passion for alcohol more explicable, then less. Had he ever been prey to the addictions and follies of his parents, the boy would never have clawed his way out of the gutter.

It’s the appeal of the knife edge, then, the eternal game of roulette, this need to face his fears, the darkest elements of his soul, by embracing them.

Genevieve ponders her glass before taking another sip. “Do people _never_ surprise you, Lionel? You affect such an air of omnipotence that one might completely forget that you were a convict only through the actions of your own son, and are now a free man only by my hand.”

“And a lovely hand it is,” he says, smiling, his pose never less than relaxed. This is what it is to be on his home territory, holding all of the cards. Needling him is rarely met with anything other than a vague sense of amusement. But there are, of course, well-worn chinks in his armor.

She eases out of the chair, glass in hand, going to examine his books once more. “Jason has been complaining about his reading assignments in college. So much for instilling a love of the written word in young minds. It’s my fault, I must admit. I gave him over to his father’s football games at such a young age. Still, I could hardly have a toddler trampling over my dig sites in a futile search for arrowheads.” Prizing a book from its place, she turns back to him. “Presumably Lillian was the driving force behind Alexander’s education.”

A pause so slight as to be incidental. “She bought him _comic books_ ,” Lionel relates, shifting his position slightly. “He could read, certainly. We read the Greek myths together when he was very small. Lilly argued that it was a little early to be prepping him for college exams. So… primary colors, heroes and villains. He’s always had trouble perceiving shades of gray.”

“A veritable handicap, given his heritage,” Genevieve says with just a hint of a smile, before lowering her gaze to the book. “I have wondered, Lionel, why you never remarried?”

There’s an awkwardness to his posture now. She can see it out of the corner of her eye. “I’ve wondered why you ever _did_ ,” he counters, and gets to his feet, hands in pockets. A casual gesture, or an attempt at masking nervousness? “Edward Teague was never a prime candidate.”

“He’s a good father,” Genevieve says absently, her tone deliberately non-confrontational, opening up the book and reading the contents page with feigned interest. “Besides, the prime candidate was very much already spoken for. And I had no wish to join his ranks of mistresses and whores.”

There’s a breath of a laugh from Lionel’s lips. “Only you could be so complimentary and derogatory in the same breath, Geneviève.”

She lifts her head to look at him. _Yes_ , she thinks now. _Chinks in the armor._

***

Seduction. In Genevieve’s opinion, the finest art a woman could ever learn and, some might say, the only one she should ever need to master, developing a woman’s god-given gifts to enrapture, misdirect, and entirely consume.

The first time had been ridiculously easy. Of course it had. Lionel was obviously the type of man who hungered for the precise flavor of cultivated sophistication Lillian could give him – a good family in the sense of money in the bank and Ivy League doctorates on the walls, fluency in European languages, a beautiful touch on the piano… Everyone had loved Lillian, and even the sharp mind and brutal heart of Lionel Luthor had been swayed by her seemingly effortless ability to love in return, to bend gracefully when pushed. Lillian had been attractive, but she had never truly been a challenge.

Genevieve has always pushed back.

The air comes out of his lungs in a rush as his glass, swept from the table, cracks and shatters against the carpeted floor. She is being careless, passionate, emotional, her palm a relentless pressure on his chest as she presses her lips to his. His arrogance, however, may be the one thing she can depend on in an uncertain situation. She suspects - _knows_ \- that he had claimed full responsibility for the ease with which he had maneuvered her into bed at the mansion long ago. Why would now, in his mind, be any different? Forbidding intellect and known lack of moral compunction aside, she is not Lionel Luthor. But she still has something to offer.

There’s curiosity in his eyes when she pulls back, but soon his hands are on her hips, moving down to cup her ass, bring her more firmly onto his lap. Is there a flicker of suspicion there? Perhaps. But she’s given him no reason to stop, and every reason to continue.

“Has it really been so long?” she asks, her voice determinedly cool despite their physical proximity. She presses her hand _hard_ against his stiffening erection, prompting a moan of discomfort and a baring of teeth. “I would have assumed that you would have a veritable harem waiting for you on your release from prison.”

“A jail cell does wonders for a man’s perception of celibacy,” Lionel says, making no effort to remove her hand. Instead, he’s rocking his hips against it, pulling her closer, kissing her without a hint of asking for permission. They’re familiar territory now, even with aged bodies and new scars. “There’s no question about why I might be interested, Geneviève. The question is why might you?”

She smiles. “I thought I might forcibly restrain you and then _beat_ the element out of you. You always did like your handcuffs.”

He eyes fix on hers, searching for something. “Perhaps,” he says finally, “we should retire to the bedroom.”

There are no handcuffs tonight, although she suspects he has them somewhere. He’s always been far too attached to their smooth functionality, to the effects they have, to get rid of them entirely. But tonight it’s rope, thin and strong, and just rough enough to leave marks. An erotic game of chicken, of testing each other’s limits.

He’s in control, of course: unbound, clothed, standing over her and looking down with a clinical eye, his mouth barely curving into a smile. She’s never been embarrassed by her body – it is, after all, a tool, a weapon to be used – but she must wonder to what mental image he is comparing it. To her younger self? To Lillian? To the Kansas farmer's wife who, rumors have it, might have had his heart and more only months before?

She curls and uncurls her fingers, fending off numbness, feigning relaxation against expensively soft sheets. The decision has been made. She is here, and naked, and restrained, her legs spread for him whether she changes her mind, loses her nerve, or not.

He cocks his head to one side, nimble fingers undoing every button of his dress shirt. He’s _looking_ at her as if searching for something, his gaze relentlessly analytical. It’s for her benefit, she suspects. How many women would be made self-conscious in this situation, laid bare for inspection, all of their scars, wrinkles, and blemishes left undisguised? But she decides to make him uncomfortable in her unnatural confidence, smiles at him with as much cynical charm as she might muster in the best Paris fashions. “Nervous?”

His laughter is merely an exhalation, the friction of his tongue against his teeth as he kneels with one knee on the bed, eyes on hers as if he half expects her to break free of her bonds.

“Did you enjoy it, the first time?” he asks, a solitary fingernail scraping down her inner thigh, tracing the path of a vein under pale skin.

Her eyebrows are raised, her mouth curved into something resembling disdain before it occurs to her that he may not, despite appearances, be seeking adolescent reassurance about his own performance twenty years ago.

“It was brutal and quick,” she says calmly, letting a hint of humor creep into her voice. “I enjoyed it for what it was.”

“Mm.” She can feel his breath on her skin, now, as he leans forward as if smelling her, tasting her essence. Obviously, she is an exceptionally fine wine to be savored. And his eyes snap up to meet hers again. “And what was it?”

Her face betrays no sign that she can feel him at all. “An initiation. A testing ground.”

“Ah.” He’s not surprised. He so rarely is. “You found that I am easily plied with… what? Easy women?”

She sighs. “You’re cleverer than that, Lionel.” But then the full weight of him is on her as he pulls himself over her, palms planted by her elbows, the hard nub of his fly digging into her belly.

“I am,” he agrees, his lips an inch from hers. “Sadly enough, I am.” He suddenly kisses her cheek and straightens up, reaching down to undo his fly, take his still soft erection in his hand, watching her with that same expression of detached interest that she has been giving him all night. “It’s limits, Geneviève. Just how far will a man go… for his wife, his son, for money, for ideals?”

Her face twists into the very image of disdain, her gaze determinedly on a work of art on the wall by the door. “ _Limits_ ,” she repeats thoughtfully, and then her eyes are on him again. “Have you ever had limits, Lionel? Boys who murder their parents, who use their corpses as a stepping-stone out of the gutter are hardly inclined to a sense of moral obligation.”

He’s far from invulnerable. She knows this, has always known this. He is capable of love, as much as he is driven to such extremes of survival that he would think nothing of devouring human flesh to save himself from starvation, would gladly gnaw off his own hand to escape from a trap. Lillian had never been able to tame the beast, had been a victim of his temper, of his myriad fears that encapsulate both imprisonment and abandonment, but she had let them all see him bleed in her wake.

It had been rage against impotency in its purest form, locking Alexander away at boarding school, himself in his own towers of steel and glass. He had shown himself to be weak in the very nature of his revenge against fate, his fixation on numbers leading to smooth, logical takeovers that were beautiful, too, in their simplicity. He had made millions – billions, all told – but Genevieve had visited him then, had found him playing his piano with his eyes closed, his cheek sliced open from a shattered glass or mistimed parry.

“You love danger too much,” she’d told him then, blood drying on her fingertips. She tells him again now, seeing him hard between her legs, all too aware that conflict drives him on, arouses him. “There’ll be no blaze of glory for you, Lionel Luthor.”

He raises his chin a little, perhaps in acceptance, but then his hand thuds down onto the mattress by her head, and the roughness of his mouth is on hers, his teeth making her lips sting. “There doesn’t have to be,” he says, and there’s such unfamiliar honesty in his eyes that she opens her mouth to question him, a motion broken off by the hard thrust of him inside her. She’s determined not to moan in satisfaction, to instead only witness him losing control, dropping his guard. Sadly, she suspects this only arouses him more.

But she’s not responsible. It’s one aspect of Lionel’s preferences in the bedroom that has always, in some way, appealed to her – not the shocking helplessness, exposure, and embarrassment of being splayed out like this, tied and bound for his pleasure, but the fact that none of it is her responsibility. She would never let a man rape her, but this… She can give into him without judgment, without weakness.

And she must make some kind of noise, some whimper of pleasure, some hint of satisfaction, because he’s nuzzling her as he moves, his mouth flush against her neck, his beard scratching her skin. “It’s all right,” he’s saying, his voice a low purr as if reassuring a child. “Let me… Just let me…”

Does she have a choice? She knows she does. She can relax into the probing pressure of his fingers, can close her eyes and breathe, moving her legs further apart instead of pulling against the ropes. She can enjoy it. What a victory that would be.

“Lionel…” she whispers. For once, it’s not a prelude to a biting comment, to a gilded insult. She says his name just for the pleasure of saying it, to feel the shiver of tension that goes through him, and because she can’t yet bring herself to say _fuck me_. But she expects he knows exactly what she means. He’s always been able to make her beg.

It’s wonderfully easy, the push of him inside her, the slip-slide of his hips against hers, the movement of his hand just guiding her, tilting her upwards a little until he sighs with the perfection of it. He’s enjoying her, and perhaps it’s only ego telling her this, but she can imagine that it’s not only because it’s a battle he’s won, dominating her completely. It’s because he likes her, wants her, relishes their skirmishes all the more _because_ she’s a worthy opponent. She’s always been the one he could never have completely, regardless of how many times he has fucked her harder and better than her husband, how many times he has had her at his mercy. There’s respect in that. There’s love, in a way.

“Geneviève…” His fingers on her lips, stroking hair away from her cheek. She’d laughed at his schoolboy French once, had been faintly impressed by the way he had never been embarrassed, had instead called her that always – a name that never sounded as uncultured on his lips as it should.

She can’t touch him, can barely move. “Can you just…” And he’s _there_ , forcing her to break off her request as a gasp of pleasure rises inside her. His mouth closes over a nipple, as dark and gloriously warm as sin, and then he looks up as if missing something, reaches over and looses her hands. She only thinks of slapping him once her arms are already around him, hugging him to her, hands feeling his ass, pushing him deeper into her.

“You should never have married him,” Lionel says, a growl of a comment that could be a threat in another light. The snap of his hips against her almost hurts, _should_ hurt, and she’s just as aware of how tightly her fingers are curled in her hair, how much she must be hurting him, as she is of the orgasm flooding her body, tensing every muscle, making ropes tear into naked skin. She can’t help it. Can’t help any of it.

“You used to last longer,” she says a few moments later when he’s softening and sticky between her legs, his head resting on her chest. She’s holding him, affectionately ruffling his hair, relishing these few seconds of complete control. And they could go on… She knows he would untie her, strip off his clothes, sleep in her arms until morning. Lionel Luthor is no fool, but she has something he needs, something he seems unable to keep.

She sees the shadow in the doorway, and perhaps Lionel notices a slight hitch in her breathing, a slight tensing of her hold on him, but there’s no way for him to react before the butt of the gun slams into his temple, hard enough to bruise bone.

Jason is screaming, and none of it is intelligible as Lionel bursts free from her grasp, blood streaked on his face, his eyes full of death. Forced to be a helpless spectator, she wonders whether Jason’s gun carries real bullets, whether Lionel, eternal survivor that he is, keeps a .45 under his pillow. She wonders which she hopes for more. Seeing Lionel go down under the effect of the tranquilizer dart is as much a shock as it is a relief.

Jason cuts her bonds, kicks the unconscious Lionel in the ribs, hands over her blouse.

“Did he hurt you?” he asks, sitting on the very edge of the bed, deliberately avoiding her eyes. She knows it’s the very last thing he wants to know.

She purses her lips, dresses quickly, ignores the raw ankles and bruised wrists, the hot wetness of him between her legs. There will be enough time for self-pity and hot showers later.

They take the ropes and a 1961 Bordeaux with them when they leave. Turnabout is fair play, after all.


End file.
